#her boyfriend and I antagonise each other for fun and then he does sweet things like get me a chocolate bunny too when he gets one for her

[rachiller]

The way I’m just in the dream housemate situation and now I don’t know why I settled for any less

[spiralledcupid]

‘ people say friends don’t destroy one another (what do they know about friends?) ’

Peter Lukas/Elias Bouchard, 1947 words. 

Peter and Elias watch The Weakest Link. 

CW for toxic dynamics and british game shows 

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They’re almost always busy. Organising the apocalypse was hard work, and when Elias wasn’t submerged in paperwork and plotting, Peter was out to sea and mourning his failure – and when Peter wasn’t on the Tundra, Elias was too busy laying traps for his Archivist. It was nothing personal, though Elias sometimes liked to act like it was, just to bait a reaction. It was simply hard to schedule time for relaxation, hard to plan when getting hold of each other was near impossible. But, on the nights where they both happened to be available and in England, Peter always ended up on Elias’ doorstep. Somewhere along the line, Elias would let him in, they’d pour drinks – cider for Peter and red wine for Elias, the latter stocked high and the former with just a few cans gathering dust in a corner – and they’d end up in front of the television. And Peter would put on a game show.  

They’re an odd little fascination, one Peter developed during a horrid interval when the Tundra was trapped portside for a week, or maybe two. Though he’d expected his enjoyment of them to pass when he was finally free to sail on his silent ship once more, the habit stuck and more often than not he found himself watching one quiz show or another. Not the silly ones like Eggheads or Pointless, when it all boiled down into teamwork and collaboration, but the truly cutthroat ones, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and such, where the contestants were pitted against each other from the start. The ones where they were all so obviously praying their fellow contestants would fail so they could get their chance at whatever meaningless award was offered.

Elias – though he had been James Wright at the time, if Peter remembered right �� had called Peter for the first time ever when that couple cheated Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, gloating over how they’d worked together to snatch the top prize from ITVs helpless hands. It took all the fun out of it, really, working together. It robbed the shows of that intoxicating isolation that populated so many of them, the terrifying knowledge that there would be no help given, that everything had to be done alone. That was quite wonderful.

Peter allowed himself to sprawl over their shared sofa. For once in his overlong life, Elias had decided to be pleasant, only complaining twice when Peter commandeered the remote to put on a rerun of The Weakest Link. And he’d kept quiet during the best bits, when the contestants nominated the contestant to leave the show that round.

“You are being kind tonight.” Peter remarked, when the second-rate replay channel shoehorned in yet another ad break.

“Am I?” Elias asked, swinging his long legs into Peter’s lap. Peter shuffled away to the tune of Elias’ laugh. The last thing he needed was Elias ruining the delicious pain of second-hand isolation by forcing Peter to remember his presence. He regretted talking at all when Elias began prodding his toes into the worn jean of Peter’s thigh. His socks were covered with eyes, tessellated together into some sickening collage of sight.

“Can you see from those?” Peter asked without thinking. On the television, some pointless celebrity offered up a brand of washing power in a variety of scenarios, her face never losing a bland smile, her eyes clinging to hollow vacancy. Peter’s heart rose. There was nothing more enjoyable than the knowledge that this woman, whoever she may be, would have left the recording studio for a flat far too big for her in the centre of a bustling city, the open plan forcing her voice to echo and rebound from the stock-photo walls should she try to call any of the fake friends she had. But there were still millions of women across the country watching her vacant face and wishing with all their lonely little hearts that they could be her, convinced that if they just had her hair or her face, her money or her family, they could wash the loneliness from their lives for good. They were wrong.

Peter hoped no one told them.

“Can I see through my socks?” Elias mused, closing his eyes. Seconds, minutes later, he blinked them open again, “Your trousers are terribly frayed.”

“I don’t need to see through my socks to know that.”

“You should fix them.” Elias suggested, in the voice that meant he wanted Peter to do no such thing. Elias fed from making sure Peter always felt his Eye on one of his flaws or another and Peter, in turn, fed from never listening to Elias’ opinion when he chose to give it. It made Elias feel terrifically, terrifyingly lonely, when people didn’t care what he thought about them.

A five second clip of the introduction music signalled the end of the nauseating ad break. Peter was very conflicted about ad breaks. On one hand, it didn’t really seem fair to exchange five minutes of mediocre television for five minutes of mind-numbing adverts displaying things no one person could possibly need, even if they lived as long as Elias had. On the other hand, advertisements were built around the need to make the viewer feel inferior, a gateway drug to loneliness if there ever was one. Where there was inferiority there was insecurity, the fear of being left out or left behind, and both of those were fears The Lonely found delicious.  

Yes, Peter would adore ad breaks, if he didn’t have to see them too.

“How could they cancel this?” Peter sighed, as onscreen Anne Robinson belittled a contestant for enjoying wrestling.

“It’s possibly the only good thing the BBC has ever done,” Elias said, purely to provoke a reaction, “I mean it. I’m not antagonising you.”

“I didn’t think antagonising, I thought provoking,” Peter said pleasantly, “I would prefer it if you stayed out of my head, though.”

The thought of Elias watching his thoughts, taking a personalised tour through his brain like a tourist at an isolated art gallery, sent Peter’s skin crawling. It was the worst thing about spending time with Elias, the knowledge that he, should he feel inclined, could dip into Peter’s head and watch to his heart’s content, dig up every little secret and throw them back into Peter’s face just to see how he’d react. And the knowledge that any reaction Peter gave would feed Elias’ patron.

“What a shame.” Elias remarked, tugging Peter’s attention back to The Weakest Link.

“What happened?”

“She didn’t bank. Lost them almost all of the money.” Elias clicked his tongue in a sham of sympathy.

Peter groaned, “You made me miss it.” The frustrated looks of the other contestants weren’t nearly as satisfying without the memory of the woman’s mortification to back them up.

“What a shame.” Elias repeated. His feet were still pressed against Peter’s thigh, a constant, bony reminder that Peter wasn’t alone anymore, would never be alone again should he ask. He wondered if he should be happy about it.

“You think,” Elias said, “far too much. What does it matter if you’re not always lonely? I’m not always Watching.”

“You had your Eye on that archivist of yours not ten minutes ago.” Peter said, taking Elias’s sudden frown as confirmation of his hunch. But that was all wrong too. Surely normal people wouldn’t be joking if their partner had spent a night with them watching one of their co-workers. Surely they’d be upset about it.

“We’re not partners.” Elias reminded him.

There were two contestants left, vying for the money that hadn’t been lost by their idiotic competitor. Peter tried to focus on them, and not on the way Elias was looking at him, on the half-smile playing across the lips Peter liked so much. When they were together, of course. When they were apart, Peter thought, Elias’s mouth was just another mouth.

“Liar.” Elias hissed. The bolt of insecurity that darted through him was honeysuckle sweet. In retaliation, Elias dug his heel into Peter’s leg as he stretched out over as much of the sofa as he could, crowding Peter against the arm. Peter didn’t look away from the television.

“The man on the left wins,” Elias snapped, “It’s a question about Hadrian’s wall and he snatches it right out from under the other man’s nose. He spends his pathetic gains gambling himself into worse debt then he started with.”

“Oh,” Peter complained. Anxiety swelled in his gut at the show of Elias’s power. He didn’t know Elias could dip into the minds of people on television too. Was there anything he couldn’t See, any secret he couldn’t Know as soon as he wished to?

“I can’t. I’ve just seen this one before.” Elias said, observing Peter’s wide eyes with barely-concealed delight. What did Elias care if the power he’d hinted at didn’t exist? Peter’s original rush of fear had been enough to make them even.

“You,” Peter said, “are a bad boyfriend.”

“I don’t care, as long as I’m not yours.”

Careful, Peter closed a hand around Elias’ ankle, covering some of the eyes that danced and winked along it. Elias’s smile widened.

Peter tugged, and Elias let himself be moved.

Peter lifted, and Elias let himself be raised.

When he sunk his fingers into Peter’s hair and pushed his nails into Peter’s scalp, Peter didn’t protest. Instead, he placed Elias in his lap and let himself be kissed.

Kissing Elias was a little like breathing in a burning building. It was a little like Christmas, or existing on a crowded ship. In other words, it was unbearable, but Peter wanted, needed it anyway. It was choking and over-hot and crowded and pushy and Peter wanted it more and more and more and more, until he couldn’t breathe without Elias pressed firm against his chest.

Elias pulled his mouth away, because it wasn’t enough for Peter to just feel his smirk apparently.

“Your metaphors are ridiculous.” He wiped his mouth with one hand and smoothed his hair with the other.

“I never was fond of words.”

“That much is clear.” Elias said, as if they hadn’t had this conversation a thousand times before, as if they wouldn’t have it a thousand times again before they were finally done with each other. Peter caught his breath as Elias rolled his shoulders, blazer slipping down from the movement, before craning his neck to glance at the television. Peter watched the credits reflect in his shiny, dark eyes.

“Can we put Big Brother on? After all,” He patted Peter’s cheek, “You’ve had your fun.”

“If you want.”

All those people trapped together but encouraged to hate, to isolate even when there was nowhere to go, to say one thing when they thought and felt another, to not trust anyone they were confined with. It was lonely enough for Peter.

“Everything’s lonely enough for you,” Elias said, rubbing at the faint red of beard rash decorating his cheeks, “You’re very simple to please.”

The familiar panic washed over Peter again, the fear encapsulated in the knowledge that Elias would always, somehow, Know Peter better than Peter knew himself. The fear that, whatever Peter was, Elias could See it and take it and keep it for himself.

Peter pushed Elias from his lap.

They split a pack of biscuits, though they were both hungry for something more sustaining, and Peter wondered if he could never get used to having all his secrets laid out in a glass cabinet, for Elias to view as he pleased.

The look on Elias’ face said that, even if he could, Elias wouldn’t let him.